Loyal Companions Never Forgotten
by Bellarsam Chrisjulittle
Summary: Two-shot, post TAB. When Sherlock finds out the reason why Molly did not come into work that day, he drops everything and rushes to her side. No way is he letting her go through this tough experience alone; he knows firsthand the pain that comes from this situation regardless. Mentions of death.
1. Chapter 1

When Sherlock Holmes arrived in the lab that February morning, he fully expected to find Molly Hooper starting her 9:00 AM shift. But instead, he found Mike Stamford.

"Where is Molly?" Sherlock demanded, his harsh tone perfectly disguising the worry that was rapidly rising in his chest. Molly only missed work for a very good reason; she was about as dedicated to her job as he was to his work. Had she fallen ill? Or was it even more serious than that?

"His way of saying 'hello,' Mike," John said, walking into the lab behind Sherlock.

"Well, then, hello right back to you both," said Mike, with a smile that was just a bit forced.

"Molly Hooper, Stamford!" Sherlock practically barked. "Where is she? She never misses a shift unless something is wrong. What is wrong?"

"Easy, Sherlock," John said, putting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder when he made to step closer to Mike. He would have snapped at Sherlock for his rudeness under normal circumstances. But the supposed resurrection of Moriarty had blown anything normal in the lives of all of them out of the window.

Sherlock had become especially protective of Molly, which was understandable. She had been overlooked by Moriarty when he'd been alive, and she'd played a key role in his Fall. This made her more of a target than the others, and if John Watson had learned anything about Sherlock Holmes, it is that he would go to _any_ lengths for those that he trusted and cared for.

Seeing that he wasn't going to get off the hook easily, Stamford sighed and gave Sherlock a stern look. "Don't bother her, Sherlock. She had to take her cat to the vet today. Said it had to be put to sleep. I gave her today and the rest of the week off; Lord knows we all deserve a break from death after any kind of loss, especially Molly."

"Got that right," John said, shaking his head. He'd never been one for cats, but he knew how much the loss of a pet could hurt. He'd had a bull terrier growing up that had died of old age. He and Mary were planning to adopt a dog from a shelter once baby Emma was a bit older and really able to enjoy having a family dog. "Well, of course we'll make due with you then, Mike. Right, Sherlock?"

But Sherlock made no response. He seemed to have frozen in place, especially the expression on his face. After ten seconds, John became quite worried and gave Sherlock's shoulder a shake. This seemed to break the spell: Sherlock blinked and then practically sprinted out of the lab.

Thankfully, being in the army had given John extremely good reflexes. He was right behind Sherlock within seconds and pulling then both to a halt before the detective had reached the elevator.

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock!" John practically shouted at him when they had stopped. "Her damn cat is dying and you're going to drag her back here?"

"Of course not!" Sherlock shouted right back, pulling his arm away roughly from John's grip. "I would _never_ do that to her, John!"

There was so much conviction in Sherlock's tone and expression that John was left momentarily speechless, and he also didn't doubt what Sherlock said for a moment. "Okay," he said softly. "Okay, mate. Just tell me where you're rushing off to. We did, after all, come here for a reason."

Sherlock nodded, looking at the ground for a moment before pulling a bundle from his coat pocket. It was what looked to be a fist-sized clump of dirt wrapped in a secure, police evidence bag. He handed it to John. "Have Stamford run all of the tests he can for blood samples in this soil. I'm fairly certain that there will be our latest victim's blood there, and hopefully her killer's will be as well. Text me when the results come through."

John nodded. "Sure, but Sherlock –" The detective had turned and began walking at a quick pace to the elevator. "Sherlock, where _are_ you going, then?"

After Sherlock had pressed the elevator button – which opened immediately after – he looked over his shoulder and only said, "I won't let her go through this alone."

After he had entered the elevator and the doors had closed after him, John just stood there for a minute, processing what had just happened. When he was finished, he smiled a soft smile to himself and shook his head as he walked back towards the lab.

 _Well, I'll be damned…the idiot finally pulled his head out of his arse…damnit, now I owe Mary fifty quid…_

* * *

The veterinary clinic's waiting room was nearly empty, with the only other company besides the receptionist being a bearded man who had cocker spaniel laying, possibly sleeping, at his feet. Thankfully, neither he nor the dog bothered the young woman on the other side of the room, cradling her cat in her arms. The tabby's breathing was slow, deep and labored. She rhythmically stroked him, occasionally scratching behind his ears. He purred at her action, but not nearly as enthusiastically as he used to.

"It's okay, Toby," she whispered to the feline. There were tears in her voice. "You'll be feeling a lot better soon…and I'm not going anywhere."

The door to the clinic opened with a soft tinkling of a bell, but Molly did not look up, instead keeping her focus on her cat. But when she felt someone sit in the chair right beside her – and got a whiff of his very familiar scent – her head snapped up sharply. Sure enough, it was Sherlock who now sat beside her, hands folded on his lap and his back iron-rod straight. His gaze was focused just above the receptionist's head.

In her vulnerable grief, Molly's temper flared. "Here to drag me back to the lab once my cat is declared?" she said in a tone that was a perfect cross between a snap and a hiss.

Looking at his profile, Molly saw his jaw tighten and his knuckles whiten before he took a deep breath and looked at her. "No, Molly…though I know I can't blame you for jumping to that conclusion. John did the same thing. I am simply here to…well…to offer my support."

Molly's brow furrowed and her temper cooled. She could always tell when Sherlock was lying, whether consciously or unconsciously. And while she could see that he was not telling her everything, he was still telling the truth. So, she slowly nodded before looking back down at Toby.

A few moments of silence passed before Sherlock broke it. "Is he ill, Molly?" he asked softly, looking down at the feline.

Molly shook her head. "Old age and the complications of that. He's fifteen, which is a long lifespan for a cat. In the last week, he's barely eaten anything and barely moved. Took him in yesterday and found out that his kidneys were rapidly breaking down." She sniffed. "It's just his time, I suppose…"

"How long has he been with you?" asked Sherlock. He'd never bothered to ask or find that out before. During the few times that he'd used Molly's flat as a bolt hole, his interaction with her feline had been like meeting an enemy under a truce. That cat had never quite trusted him, always keeping close to Molly and glaring at him like Sherlock was a threat to his human…

 _A wise cat, then. Lord knows I'd already hurt her too many times before I met that feline._

Molly pulled him from his reverie by answering his question. "Since he was a kitten. I was in my first year of University, and it was just after my dad died. A girl I knew from my biology lab had told me that her family cat was expecting a litter, and I asked if I could have one when they came. He's been with me all his life."

Sherlock saw that a tear had fallen from Molly's eye and was halfway down her cheek. Without hesitation, Sherlock unfolded his hands and raised one up to gently cup Molly's face, wiping the tear away with his thumb. In her vulnerable state, Molly unconsciously leaned into the warm touch, still keeping her eyes on the tabby cat in her arms.

"Molly Hooper?"

Both Sherlock and Molly looked up to see that a man who could only be a veterinarian had come through a door by the reception desk. He had a clipboard in his heads and a sympathetic look on his face. "We're ready for you both now," he said, looking from her to Toby.

Sherlock saw Molly visibly gulp, and he dropped his hand from her face to her shoulder, squeezing it gently. She looked at him again and, for one of the first times in his life, he could perfectly read and decipher the turbulent emotions in her eyes.

 _Of course I can. Because I know exactly how this feels._

"I'll be right here, Molly," he vowed solemnly. "I promise you."

Molly bit her lip as tears filled her eyes anew. In the next moment, she had blinked them back and said hoarsely, "Thank you."

With that, Molly carefully stood up, cradling Toby lovingly in her arms, and bravely followed the kindly veterinarian through the door.

Sherlock let out a deep breath and leaned his head back against a wall. Memories that he _never_ looked at voluntarily were flooding through his mind without permission now, and he was brought out of it some minutes later by the sound of rapid paw prints and the hushed scoldings of the only other visitor in the waiting room.

Opening his eyes, Sherlock saw that the cocker spaniel – who had apparently woken up from his nap – had now seated himself before him, grinning and panting. Sherlock smiled and chuckled, reaching down to scratch behind the dog's ears. "Hello, pretty girl," he said, deducing immediately the dog's gender.

"Sorry, mate," said her bearded owner, who had gotten up to follow his dog. "Hope you don't mind. She loves meeting new people."

"No, not at all," said Sherlock. "In fact, she seemed to know exactly what I needed."

The bearded man nodded, looking to the door that Molly had just carried Toby through. Having figured out in his mind what was going on, he nodded towards the door and asked, "You that nice girl's bloke, then?"

Sherlock looked up at the man, and the words that came out of his mouth came from his heart rather than his mind. "I very much hope to be."

The bearded man grinned. "Well, you made the right move being here for her, mate. You take special care of her tonight."

Normally, a conversation like this would have irritated Sherlock beyond belief. Now, he merely gave a small smile and said, "Oh, I plan to."

The bearded man gave a satisfied nod as the white door by the reception desk opened again. Sherlock looked up on alert, but neither Molly nor the veterinarian came out. Instead there came a young woman in teal scrubs, obviously a veterinary technician. "Mr. Williams? Time for Lucy's check-up."

"Okay, we're coming," said Mr. Williams. He then held out a hand for Sherlock to shake. "Good luck to you, mate."

Sherlock returned the handshake whole-heartedly. "Thank you." He then turned back to Lucy, the chipper cocker spaniel, with a smile. As he gave her one last scratch behind the ears, he said lowly, "As tempting as it may be, try not to bite any fingers off, or you won't get a treat after it's over."

"You've got that right," said the veterinary technician. Mr. Williams laughed as he led Lucy after her and through the door.

Sherlock, feeling just a bit better and with just a drop more confidence in himself, he sat back in his seat again and settled in. He had promised Molly that he would be here, and he would keep that promise.

And if she would accept him…that promise would extend throughout the rest of their lives.

* * *

 **A/N:** _My beloved family dog of sixteen years passed away a few days ago, and this is basically my form of therapy for it. If you leave lots of reviews I'll write a follow-up chapter sooner rather than later. More to come!_


	2. Chapter 2

When Molly came through the white door and back into the lobby of the veterinary office, her arms now empty and hanging limply at her sides, her face was the very picture of strength. Though it was clear that she had cried by the red eyes and flushed cheeks, she was keeping her emotions in now. Sherlock felt his love for Molly – for of course it was love – grow even more. He had a strong impulse to gather her to him and hold her tightly, but they were in a public place.

Also, public or private setting, there was a good chance that Molly would push him away. Their relationship, always difficult to name or categorize, was still quite fragile. Once Molly had learned everything that had happened during and resulting from the Magnussen affair, she'd barely been able to look at him. Now, nearly two months since the Moriarty video had aired across the United Kingdom, they'd come to the point where they only interacted in a professional capacity. Today had only been the second time he'd seen her out of the morgue since his exile had been lifted; the first time had been when Emma had been born one month ago.

So, now, Sherlock stood up, fetched Molly's coat and scarf from the peg, and waited for Molly to finish speaking to the veterinarian. The kind man handed her some leaflets and then shook her hand with kind sympathy. Once their conversation appeared to be over, Sherlock walked to Molly's side and held out her coat for her.

"I'll see that you get home," he said in a soft voice that still retained a firm strand. Molly, the appearance of fatigue and sadness, just nodded. Once she had her coat and scarf on, she followed Sherlock out of the office.

Outside, a light snow had begun to fall, and the wind was stronger than it had been an hour ago. Almost unconsciously, Sherlock wrapped an arm around Molly's hunched shoulders and pulled her against his side for warmth. Molly didn't try to pull away. In fact, in the cold air and her vulnerable state, she leant against his side. He hailed a cab – which of course pulled up to the curb right away – and helped her climb inside.

Once he'd gotten in after her and closed the door, Sherlock opened his mouth to give the cabbie Molly's address, but she spoke before he could:

"221B Baker Street, please."

Sherlock was more than a little surprised. She turned to look at him nervously. "If that's ok, I mean. I'm just…not ready to clean and…pack up Toby's things yet."

Sherlock's expression immediately softened. "Of course, Molly. You can stay as long as you need to." _Forever, if it were up to me._ But he kept that last part to himself.

They spent the cab ride in silence. Molly sat in her corner of the cab, her arms wrapped around herself and still keeping her emotions inside. Again, Sherlock had a deep desire to pull her to him, but was afraid of rejection. _At least she asked if she could go home with you,_ his John-conscience told him. _If nothing else, it proves that she hasn't completely given up on you._

 _Thank goodness!_

When the cab arrived outside of the 221 building of Baker Street, Sherlock paid the cabbie and helped Molly out of the cab. Once they were inside the front hall, Sherlock pulled his flat key from his trouser pocket and handed it to her. "Go right in and make yourself at home. I just need to speak to Mrs. Hudson about something."

Molly nodded, took the key, and walked slowly up the stairs. Once she was out of his sight, Sherlock went to the door of 221A and briskly knocked. Mrs. Hudson opened it, and smiled up on seeing him. "Oh hello, Sherlock dear!" she said with a smile.

"Mrs. Hudson," greeted Sherlock, deciding to get right to the point just to save time. "I've brought Molly home with me. Her cat had to be put down just now, and I believe some of your baked goods would do her the world of good. Do you happen to have anything fresh?"

"Oh, the poor dear!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, pressing a hand to her heart. "I'll whip up a batch of my chocolate biscuits right now!" And then she turned on her heels and marched right into her kitchen, beginning to ramble on about a cat she once had named Mr. Twinkletoes. That name was more than enough incentive for Sherlock to head up to his own flat.

But when he reached the last few steps leading up, a sound that he heard made him stop. The door was open a little bit, so it was quite clear to his ears what it was:

Molly was crying.

Immediately, Sherlock felt a wave of fear splash over him. Situations like this left the detective feeling completely out of his depth. Sentiment and comfort were normally as foreign to him as intelligent insights were to Anderson. What if he made an error that would cause Molly to push him away and make her pain even worse than it was now? Or worse: what if he did something that finally made Molly realize that she was better off without him in her life? Sherlock didn't think – no, he _knew_ – that he couldn't bear for that to happen.

But nor could he bear to just stand there and do nothing while Molly was crying. Especially when he knew exactly the type of loss and hurt that she was experiencing right now.

So, before he could talk himself out of it or run away like a coward, Sherlock opened his front door and entered the flat. Molly was sitting in John's chair, her feet on the floor and her head in her hands as she sobbed. She looked so small and fragile, and Sherlock didn't think twice about what to do next. After closing the door and hanging up his outerwear, he walked up to Molly and knelt in front of her.

It wasn't until Molly felt his warm, long-fingered hands rubbing her shoulders and upper-arms that she became aware that she wasn't alone anymore. Her crying silenced, she lifted her face from her hands, but lowered it almost immediately as it flushed with humiliation. But Sherlock would have none of that.

"Molly, don't," he said softly, his hands not ceasing his soothing motions. "Don't hold back. I know how much this hurts. Just let it out."

If Molly hadn't been in such a vulnerable state, she would no doubt have become confused, even suspicious, by this unnatural display of comfort from the normally aloof detective. But now, her only reaction to his comforting words was for her face to crumple as her sobs came back. And in reaction to her actions, Sherlock moved forward until he knelt between her legs. His arms wrapped around her and he gently brought her body to rest against his. Molly, who had followed Sherlock's advice, offered no resistance as she let herself cry once more. Soon, her head had nestled comfortably on his shoulder.

Sherlock said nothing the entire time he held her. He knew that words wouldn't do any good in this situation, and the wrong words could have devastating and disastrous consequences. So he stayed silent, his hands rubbing her back and stroking her hair as he held her.

Had he ever held her before? Sherlock searched his mind palace and very quickly discovered that not only had he never held Molly in any way, but the physical contact that they'd had in over seven years of knowing each other was practically miniscule! Their fingers had brushed each other's on a handful of occasions in the lab when samples and slides had changed hands…he'd pecked her cheek on two separate occasions…she'd kissed his cheek right as a goodbye before he left England to dismantle Moriarty's network…Oh! Once she had tripped over her own feet in the morgue and he'd grabbed her arm to stop her falling on her face!

 _Pathetic, mate,_ he heard John's voice saying in his mind palace.

 _Shut up, John! I'm rectifying this pitiful situation now and, if she'll have me, for the rest of our lives…My God, she's so warm and her natural scent is amazing! This is better than any cocktail of drugs I've ever consumed! I could have had years of this under my belt already! Why did it have to take me so long to stop being an idiot?_

John's voice laughed. _You've finally admitted that you're an idiot? Would you mind repeating that so I can record it for posterity on my mobile?_

 _SHUT UP, John! Stop trying to ruin this wonderful experience…_

"Um, Sherlock?"

Molly's hoarse voice and the sensation of her hands gently pushing against his chest brought him back to reality. He loosened his embrace but kept his arms around her as he leaned his body back so that they could look each other in the eye. Molly's face was splotched with flushed red patches, her large brown eyes bloodshot from crying. Her nose was pink and she sniffed, obviously in need of a tissue. Sherlock could only see how beautiful she still was.

"Could I have a tissue, please?"

Her almost timid question snapped Sherlock into action. "Oh, of course!" He let her go and sprang to his feet. He then grabbed the box of tissues he kept on the coffee table for emotional clients and handed it to her.

"Thanks, Sherlock," she said, immediately making use of it to tidy up her face.

Her gratitude gave him a warm feeling in his chest, and he was eager to do something else to keep that feeling going. "Would you like a cup of tea?" he asked, since that was the first thing that came to mind.

Molly gave him a small smile. Even in her grief, she could still see him with a clarity so perfect that it frightened him. She could see that he was really trying. "I would like that very much."

Sherlock returned her smile and rushed into the kitchen. He filled his kettle, set in on the stove, and turned the temperature to boil. When he turned around, he found that Molly had gotten up from John's chair and was standing at the entrance to the kitchen. She was holding her hands together, showing that she was nervous about what she felt compelled to ask.

"Can I ask…what happened?"

Though her question was vague, Sherlock immediately knew what she was specifically asking about. Even if he hadn't already told her that he knew how much this hurt, his uncharacteristically compassionate actions would have been more than enough indication to her. If any other person had asked, Sherlock would have ignored the question, refused to answer, or outright lie. But this was Molly, whom he trusted even more than he trusted himself. Even if she wasn't hurting from the recent loss of her own test, Sherlock knew that Molly was the only person that he would ever be able to discuss this with.

After a few moments, Sherlock walked towards Molly, took her hand and led her to the sofa. When they were seated, Molly said, "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, Sherlock."

"No, I…" Sherlock held her hand tighter when she tried to pull it away, training his eyes on them instead of her face. "I actually want to." And it was the truth, surprisingly enough.

Molly nodded, squeezed his hand, and silently waited for him to talk. Eventually, he did.

"When I was four, my parents gave me a puppy after Mycroft left for his first year at boarding school. An Irish setter, to be exact. I had a fascination for pirates, so I named him Redbeard for that reason and for the color of his fur."

Molly smiled, and he gained more courage to continue.

"He became my best friend, and my steadfast companion. He was a part of all my first adventures. Most often my first mate on pirate voyages and my bloodhound on the scent of mysteries. I don't think any dog could have been more loyal or faithful than he was…"

His jaw clenched and he stared at their joined hands as if his very life depended on it.

"Then one day, when I was eleven, I was taking Redbeard for a walk while simultaneously chasing down an imaginary smuggling ring. It was in late April, in the evening, and it was starting to get dark out. Just as I rounded a corner…these boys I went to school with, who only went to school to cause trouble, cornered me. Since I didn't have my knapsack with me, all that they could steal was the magnifying lense I was carrying. As they ran off, Redbeard started barking fiercely and chased after them. I was caught off guard by the initial jump so his leash just…slipped right through my fist…He ran after the boys into the street, and I tried to stop him…but a car came round the corner and…well, his injuries were so severe that he had to be put down, no matter how much I protested and cried...I know now that putting him to sleep was the kindest thing to do, but at the time all I knew was that I was losing my best friend."

He stopped talking then, his throat becoming too choked with emotion. His eyes burned with tears that he hadn't shed for his beloved dog since he'd lost him all those years ago. With his free hand, he swiped the tears away before they could fall, embarrassment filling him even though he knew that he was in a safe place and safe company. Molly seemed to sense this, and her own free hand came up to cup his cheek, turning his face towards hers. Fresh tears were pouring down her cheeks, this time for his own pain rather than hers. A tear that he had missed was wiped away by her thumb, but he barely noticed and honestly didn't care.

"I can't imagine how hard a time that was for you, Sherlock," she said quietly, her eyes and voice full of nothing but the pure compassion he knew was the reason he was still alive.

His embarrassment quickly fading, Sherlock nodded. "I shut myself up in my room until I went to my first year of boarding school later that year. I wouldn't talk about it at all. Mummy and Daddy did the best they could, considering the little I would let them see. My darling brother, who never liked dogs in the first place, was another story. The first Christmas after Redbeard passed, Mycroft gave me a graphic novel about a dog that dies and then comes back to life as a rabid zombie." The corner of his mouth turned upwards. "I gave him a bloody nose in return."

"He deserved worse than that," said Molly, her mouth twisting into an ugly shape as her eyes got a fierceness in them that Sherlock found oddly adorable (when he wasn't the cause of it, anyway). That fierce gleam suddenly turned mischievous. "You know what? I could use my time off to get some baking done. Then you could make sure that the cakes and biscuits I produce find their way to his office. Now _that's_ a proper revenge."

For a moment, Sherlock just stared at her, frozen. Then, he leaned in and pressed his lips to Molly's.

It was awkward, at first, because it was so unexpected for the both of them; Sherlock's body seemed to act of its own accord, and Molly had given up all hope for more than friendship a long time ago. But when Molly's lips reciprocated the kiss, both seemed to relax and the awkwardness disappeared. Molly's hands came up to tentatively caress his face and hair; Sherlock's own arms wrapped around her slim frame, wanting to bring her as close to him as possible.

But before their kissing could become more passionate, the shrill of the kettle on the stove caused the moment to end and their lips to separate. Her cheeks tinged a very pretty pink, Molly said, "I'll get the tea. Be right back."

Gently, she extricated herself from his hold, and was soon out of the sitting room. As Sherlock listened to the sound of her pouring out tea for two, he concentrated on getting his breath back and his body under control. No, he hadn't planned on this being how he and Molly kissed for the first time, but _good God!_ If he'd thought holding her was the most wonderful sensation, kissing her was…so _right!_ Briefly, he wondered just how wonderful it would be to be truly intimate with her, but forcefully stopped his mind from going there.

When Molly came back, he knew that she would have questions, and very rightfully so. God only knew that he'd given her no cause to have faith in him, especially in what had just happened. But he couldn't let her go, not now and not ever. She had responded to his kisses, and that was a hopeful sign that she still felt something for him, but he couldn't forget that he'd abused her trust, perhaps even shattered it. He _couldn't_ mess this up, he just _couldn't._

 _You can do it, mate,_ he heard John's voice say in his head. _You just told her about Redbeard and how he died, something you've never done before and never thought you would in your life. If you can do that, you can do this._

 _You can do this…you can do this…you can do this…_

This mantra kept playing in his head as Molly re-entered the sitting room, a steaming mug of tea in each hand. She approached him at a slow but firm pace, as if she were walking towards a bomb that may go off at any moment. When she held out his cup of tea, Sherlock took it with both hands, covering her own in the process.

"Sit with me, please?"

Molly nodded, and he let her go so that she could once again sit beside him. For a few minutes, they sipped their tea in silence, Sherlock gathering his thoughts and Molly patiently waiting for him to speak. _Of course she would,_ thought Sherlock. _I initiated this, after all, and she knows that waiting for me to speak will get answers more quickly than prying for them…she knows me so well…_

This gave him the courage to speak. He put his mug on the coffee table and turned his body to face her. He couldn't read the expression on her face, but she was looking at him and ready to listen.

"Molly, I know that I've given you no reason to believe otherwise, but what just happened…it wasn't a manipulation, or a tease, or had any ulterior motives whatsoever. I kissed you because…well, just because I really, _really_ wanted to."

To his surprise, Molly nodded. "I know, Sherlock."

The sweetest kind of relief flooded through Sherlock after the initial shock. "Really?"

"Really." Her voice and her gaze were steady, but still guarded. "You had just told me something extremely personal about yourself, Sherlock, which put you in about as open, vulnerable, and therefore as honest a position as I'm in now. Also, you're not the same man that you once were with me, using and manipulating me like a tool. That's not you anymore. _That_ man would have pulled me out of that clinic with Toby still in my arms if there was work to be done at the lab…" She touched his cheek with her fingertips, giving him a small smile. "But _this_ man came and stayed just so I wouldn't be alone."

Now she spoke with a hint of revelation in her voice. And Sherlock, bringing his hand up to hers, voiced that revelation more easily than he thought he ever would: "Because I love you, Molly."

The pathologist gasped, and brought both of her hands to her mouth as she closed her eyes. Frightened at this reaction, Sherlock gently cupped her face and spoke, willing her to look at him.

"Molly, I know that I've made mistakes. So many mistakes when you never deserved a single one of them. And if you need time to believe me, I understand. But I'm not going anywhere; I intend to earn your trust again, and I won't let anything happen to you. And no," he added in response to her opening her mouth, "I'm not only saying it because of your loss today and the empathy I feel for it."

She closed her mouth again and opened her eyes. Looking at him again, it took Molly a few moments that lasted a lifetime for Sherlock before she spoke again.

"This has been a rough morning for me, Sherlock, to say the least. And after everything that's happened and everything we've been through…just be clear and honest with me, please. Tell me what you want…what you hope…from me now, Sherlock."

The detective nodded, knowing that's exactly what she needed after everything he'd put her through.

"I want to be able to take care of you as you've always taken care of me. I want to love you as I haven't allowed myself to love anybody my entire life. God knows it took me too long and it's hurt you, but I'm ready now, Molly. It's always been you, and I don't want to waste any more time, especially with this Moriarty hoax still out there. In time, I hope you will live here with me, marry me, have a family with me, and grow old with me until death do us part." Sherlock swallowed before he said the toughest part of his speech. "But only, Molly, if you do…or could come to…want that as well. If you don't, then I would never pressure you into anything. I'll be…whatever you need me to be, even if it's only professionally."

Molly had listened to and hung on each word that he said. When he was finished, Molly lowered his hands from her face, sat back against the sofa cushions and ran her own hands over her face. Sherlock waited on pins and needles for her response, even more terrified than he'd been when Mary had revealed her true identity by pointing a gun at him.

Eventually, _finally_ , Molly spoke.

"It's almost funny…I got Toby in reaction to my father's passing…my mother had already been dead for some years. He was such a blessing to me. With the job I have, it was almost therapeutic to come home to something breathing. And, more than a few times while I had him…I thought that he was the only living thing on this earth that would care if I was alive. Then he wouldn't get fed. Pathetic, but true."

Sherlock winced and turned his head away. He'd never hated himself more, because he knew perfectly well that she would never have had such dark thoughts were it not for him and his stupidity. _Good God, how did she ever come to care for me at all?_

But his self-deprecating musings were halted when he felt her hand taking his own on the sofa. He turned his head back around and saw that she was looking at him with bright eyes. "I love you, Sherlock. I think I always have, and I've known for some time now that I always would. With all of my heart. But I can't deny that I've been…not angry but disappointed…in you for a while." She took a deep breath, sat up, and faced Sherlock on the sofa while taking his hand in both of her own. "But I do believe you, Sherlock, and I still believe in you. It may take me a while to…really become comfortable and confident with this, though. This is all a bit sudden, unexpected and…well, I had to give up hope for more a long time ago in order to stay in your life, Sherlock. So…if you could be patient with me…then yes, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes were wide, and the hand that she held began to tremble a bit. Squeezing it, she asked, "Are you alright, Sherlock?"

"Molly, I need to kiss you again, please," he said, his voice cracking like a teenage boy's.

The brown-eyed woman smiled for the first time that day, and nodded. In the next moment, they were kissing on his sofa again. Only this time, when they broke apart, it was Mrs. Hudson's "woo-hoo!" and knock on the door that interrupted them. They sat back with pink cheeks but happy eyes. "Come in, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock called, trying to smooth his curls – which Molly had run her fingers through _just right_.

"I'm just bringing up the biscuits that you asked me to make, Sherlock," said Mrs. Hudson, coming in and putting the dish on the coffee table. She then turned to Molly and bent down to hug her. "I'm so sorry about your cat, dear. I know how much it hurts."

Molly hugged her right back. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

At that moment, Sherlock's mobile buzzed with a text alert. He pulled it out and read it. "It's from John," he told Molly. "The results are in…My hunch was right!" He leapt to his feet in excitement. "Not only was the blood in the soil sample a match to the victim's, but a sample that matches two other crimes scenes was found as well!" He made fists with his hands and made a little jump in the air. This caused Mrs. Hudson to mutter about "this happiness just isn't decent," but Molly just laughed, happy for him.

This sound caused Sherlock's happiness to fade as he looked at her again, realizing that he would have to leave her. Her intuition not letting her down, Molly stood up and took his hands. "It's okay, Sherlock," she said. "I'll be just fine. You need to go."

Sherlock still looked conflicted, staring down at their hands. Mrs. Hudson then stepped up to the both of them.

"Molly, dear, I was just making lunch, why don't you join me? When we're done, I could go with you back to your flat. I know it can be hard packing up those things left behind."

Both Sherlock and Molly had never loved Mrs. Hudson more than in that moment. "I'd love to, Mrs. Hudson," said Molly with a grateful smile.

Sherlock kissed her cheeks. "Thank you," he told her sincerely. He then proceeded to put his coat and scarf back on. Molly also noticed him grab something from one of his desk drawers before leading the two women out of his flat.

The three of them walked down the stairs to the front hall. When they reached Mrs. Hudson's door, Sherlock told the older woman, "She'll join you in a few minutes."

Mrs. Hudson nodded, gave them both a knowing and approving smile, and went into her flat. Once they were alone, Sherlock asked Molly, "Do you still have the key to the flat I gave you when we arrived?"

"Oh, yes, of course you'd need it back!" said Molly, pulling the key from her trouser pocket. But Sherlock wouldn't take it back.

"Keep it, Molly. I grabbed the spare for myself. When you and Mrs. Hudson are finished at your flat, you're more than welcome to come back here. That is, if you want to. You're always welcome in my home."

Molly pocketed the key. "Okay," she said. It looked as if she wanted to say more, but she shut her mouth.

Sherlock was, as always, very observant. Cupping her cheek, he asked, "What is it, Molly?"

"I just…would it be okay if I stayed here during my time off? I'm not quite ready to be alone yet."

Sherlock smiled. "If you asked me if you could move in permanently, I would say yes. I meant every word I said when I told you what I hoped for, Molly. More than anything, I don't want either of us to be alone anymore."

Molly gave a small, shy smile and caressed his own cheek in return. "Can we take it one day at a time, then?"

Sherlock nodded, and they sealed their new beginning with a kiss before he left to join John on the case.

* * *

Molly Hooper never spent a night in her old flat again.

 **The End**

* * *

 **A/N:** _Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed the first part and gave me their condolences. I still miss my wonderful dog but it's getting less hard every day. I hope that this second act satisfies you - it's twice as long as the first part!_

 _Also, apologies if anybody was distressed by the story I gave about Redbeard's death. I just felt that it had to be something truly traumatic to have a hand in causing Sherlock to try to eliminate from feeling anything, good or bad, in his adult life._


End file.
